mornings

when i wake up in the morning the bed is always empty. by then she already is zipping around the city on her merlot purple vespa teaching celebrities pilates or having lunch in the village. i crawl from under the covers and drag myself to my office and turn on my computer and hope for good news. usually, it aint there.

i head to the cafe, dodging white babies with black nannies and the four eyed lesbians of park slope the entire way. even though its spring a gray winter still clings to the sky as if afraid to let go and we all sit on our stoops drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes and waiting for the sun to break through the gloom. i sit there inhaling and exhaling and watching the smoke rise up into the city air and try to remember my dreams and maybe find some meaning in them. i never do but its a nice exercise.

after that i usually come back upstairs and try to write for a half hour. sometimes all i get out is a paragraph, sometimes i get out a full idea, on rare occasion i create a fully fleshed out post, but thats rare.

this is not one of those rare occasions. i need another cigarette. half hours up.